


Among Thieves

by SharpestRose



Category: Ned Kelly (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned, grumpy after losing at cards and wanting a lie-in before the day turns hot and irritating, orders Dan and Steve to see to breakfast. Joe offers no sympathy to the boys either, shrugging and saying "Don't know where he would have gotten the idea you were tailored for women's work, lads."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> Some events become part of a country's folk history, and as such can arguably be called myth. This piece of fiction draws on these notions of myth and incorporates elements of commonly told stories associated with actual historical occurrences. It is also influenced by the writings of Robert Drewe and Peter Carey, the website let the truth be known, and the 2003 film directed by Gregor Jordan. No infringement or disrespect is intended.

  
The candle gutters, sending stuttering shadows high on the walls. The silhouette of the pair of hands is one shape only, the two arms blending in the low gold light.

"Look at this, your nails are disgusting," Dan teases. His fingers are shorter and broader than Steve's, they press together in an imperfect reflection.

"Yours are pretty bloody foul themselves," Steve points out cheerfully, his voice too full of laughter to be a properly quiet whisper.

The joined hands, like a prayer shared, push back and forth in an idle battle. It was raining earlier, and the bed was snug and warm, but now the rain has passed and the blankets have been kicked down to the foot of the narrow cot. The dirt on the young skin of the men is not as visible in the flickering flame-light, their scars and bruises have become indistinct and left behind only smooth expanses of healthy flesh.

"I'll be sure to hunt for soap next time I'm down doin' my weekly shop, then." Dan doesn't even try to keep a straight face to go with the words. Steve grins, and something twists inside Dan's gut that's so sweet it almost hurts like a bullet. "You're more beautiful than any girl," he says. Steve's eyes blink in surprise at the unexpected compliment, the look in them softening as liquid as the wax that's damping their light. "And stronger than any boy, too. How did I end up with you?"

"Ah, and you're fartier than a chook." Steve cuffs Dan about the head so lightly that it's more a caress than anything. "No more sugar in your tea, it's rotting out your brain like a bad tooth."

"I take back every word," Dan shoots back with a laugh, rolling them over dangerously close to the cot's edge, pinning Steve down and examining him intently.

There's a sudden loud thump against the wall and Ned calls out "You're in there to sleep, not to use the time to get a leg over. If you've so little need for a rest, you weren't keeping a good enough watch and I should tan the pair of you." Joe laughs, they're playing poker as usual and Dan and Steve can make an educated assumption that Joe's winning. Ned's got a better poker face, but never takes the game seriously enough to beat out Joe's calculating and risk-taking. Together in strategy they're unbeatable, but as opponents they're too dissimilar to play well against each other.

"You'd rather that we got it done during our watch-shift, then?" Dan calls in reply. Ned merely snorts.

"Go to sleep, you buggers."

"Interesting choice of insult, there," Steve remarks, but Dan cuts the words off with a kiss that certainly does not fall into the category of the good-night variety. Steve hums in approval, but what Ned said was true and they are both exhausted from a day of riding at their own turn at keeping watch, so after a bit of a cuddle they curl up and sleep until the uneven candle light is replaced with the thin grey wash of morning.

Ned, grumpy after losing at cards and wanting a lie-in before the day turns hot and irritating, orders Dan and Steve to see to breakfast. Joe offers no sympathy to the boys either, shrugging and saying "Don't know where he would have gotten the idea you were tailored for women's work, lads."

They set out barefoot, the rain overnight has made the scrubland damp and cool and rich-smelling.

"Like a ruddy billabong," Steve complains, scuffing at the dark mud that's tinting the hem of his pants.

"Mmm," Dan nods in agreement and trains his eye on a wallaby that has become visible a little distance away. "There any eggs left back at the shack?"

"Couple. No doubt Ned and Joe'll claim them." Steve steps closer to Dan so that their shoulders bump as they walk. The early morning crispness is punctuated by magpie and kookaburra calls, the small scuffles of warm furry things in burrows. And then, suddenly, hoofbeats.

"Bloody hell," Steve mutters and the two of them look around frantically for a place of concealment. It's been a while since the gang saw any sign of the police, and this has made them edgy and nervous. "There, that log."

'Log' is perhaps an overly polite term for what is more moss and rot than actual wood, but it does what is required of it and conceals Dan and Steve from the narrow track. After thirty breathless seconds, the horse and rider comes into view but it's just that tosser Tom Lloyd, cousin to the Kellys and friend to Joe and Steve as well. Tom rides on, oblivious to the hiding place ten feet away from the horse whose brand looks curiously similar to the Cook mark.

"Nearly gave me a bloody heart attack," Dan complains, slumping against the old wet wood. "We'll be expected to feed him too, no doubt."

"There's still two loaves of bread that aren't too stale, we'll whack some lard and roo meat on it and fry it up and they'll never know the difference." Steve grins and shifts closer to Dan in the sodden mulch. "I reckon we should celebrate the fact we've not been caught by the coppers."

"Oh yeah? How do we go about that, then?" Dan starts to ask but he's cut off by a lapful of squirming urgent teenaged bushranger as Steve pushes his mouth against Dan's.

The hair on Dan's chest is sparse and soft, the first traces of adulthood in a dark dusting that Steve rubs at with his nose and chin. Dan makes a strangled gulping noise, arching into the touch and trying to both encourage Steve and pull him up for a kiss at once.

"Curse these bloody buttons," Steve mutters as he gets to the fastenings on Dan's pants. "Should be outlawed."

"Well, if you're getting technical, those ones you're fumbling with at this moment _are_ outlawed, on account of them being mine."

"Smartarse." Steve pushes the heel of his hand down against Dan's crutch in a teasing punishment, getting a hiss of breath and a hand fisting in his hair for the trouble. Dan's other hand scrabbles at Steve's own shirt, and Steve's learnt by experience that Dan will rip the buttons off if this task takes longer than he'd like.

"Steady, steady," he mutters, finally undoing the front of Dan's trousers. "We've got a while, no rush."

Dan's only reply is a faint grunt as Steve lowers his head.

Later, when they've finished their fun behind the log and dressed themselves again, they set off to catch themselves some breakfast. There are wombats and possums about, but neither seems particularly appetising and they're tossing up whether to make the effort and go find a calf or some similar source of quality meat.

"Day's going to be clear, after all the rain last night," Steve comments. Dan hums in agreement, his lips still slightly flushed and swollen from their earlier occupation.

It's a while before Dan speaks again. "That Fanny Shaw was sweet on you."

Steve snorts. "Nah, she's got a bloke in Wangaratta, David something-or-other. Anyway, I'm not the one getting kisses from girls out in the street, am I?"

Dan ducks his head and blushes. "Lass thought it would make a romantic story, likely as not. Pecked by the infamous Dan Kelly."

"Think of the storybooks I could write, if that's the case," Steve comments with a laugh. "Honour among thieves, kits off for bushrangers, eh?"

Dan chuckles too, slinging his arm across Steve's shoulders.

"Do you reckon we'll ever have the chance to tell our stories? To our sisters' grandkids, like. And Joe and Ned's, if they ever settle on one girl long enough to get her up the spout." Dan sounds somewhat wistful, so Steve slips his arm around Dan's waist and pulls them close together.

"Why not? Who knows what's coming, as they say."

Dan nods in reply, content to walk along with Steve in silence. Never mind the future, for tomorrow seems, at that moment, an eternity away.


End file.
